the heart was made to be broken
by our dancing days
Summary: "The machine stutters at him, words caught in the wires. Albus doesn't try to say anything at all." Albus, Nicolas, and falling in love too young (and too late). / edited. au, avec many an oscar wilde quote.


**Title: **the heart was made to be broken

**Challenges: **The Operation Angst Competition - Taboo - and the Modern!AU competition.

**Prompts: **"Albus is in his sixties, Nicolas, well over a hundred. Nicolas has been living on life support for a while now, and has finally decided that he doesn't like living this way anymore. Albus must say goodbye to his friend and mentor." - _silk tie, _c_lichéd farewell, "I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens."_

**Notes: **REPOST - it's been edited and redone and whatnot and I hope you enjoy this version more! This was written for two challenges over at HPFC, and you have no idea how much fun I had writing this. I hope you fall in love with Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel just as much as I did.

* * *

"Never love anybody who treats you like you're ordinary." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

"It's been a long time, Al," the man whispers, holding Albus' hand in his. He strokes it gently, in little jerking movements. Albus doesn't say anything.

The machines beep at them, urgent, demanding, and just a little faded.

When Albus looks up, there is one thing that he notices. The eyes. It's like all the life has been drained out of his body, starting in his toes, past his heart, leaving just the eyes, shining bright in a gaunt and pale face. They look _so tired, _and they don't shimmer with happiness, or even the guilt Albus so well remembers.

It's tears, now.

"Say something," he murmurs, giving the hand a reassuring squeeze. Albus bites back a bitter laugh; trust the man on his deathbed to give comfort. "For an old man."

"You're not old," Albus retorts carefully, hands scarcely moving over the wrinkled fingers and paper-thin skin and the laughter lines around the edges of his eyes. He's had the laughter lines since his childhood, Albus is sure. He was born with a smile on his face. "You've never been old, Nick."

The man chuckles. "Now, we both know that's not quite true, Albus."

Nicolas leans back against his pillows with a frail sigh. He lifts his hand again, to run it over the bright purple tie Albus wears.

"You kept it," he says in wonderment, and Albus' hand replaces his, the silk soft against his the weathered calluses of his fingertips. "After - after everything-"

"Of course I did, Nicolas. Why wouldn't I?" Albus asks with an uncharacteristic smirk.

"It was wrong of us, Al. But I suppose we knew that at the time, didn't we? We were just too stupid to ever follow through with our ideals." His hand grasps at the silk tie again, fingers just brushing against Albus' collared shirt, not close enough to clutch it fully.

Albus leans forward and Nicolas gives him a grateful smile, and weaves the tie through his fingers, pulling his old friend down further.

"Now," he murmurs, white hair a stark contrast to the darkness of his eyes and the brightness of his smile, "I do believe it's customary to give a man his dying wish."

"Don't say that, Nick," Albus pleads, and he rests his hand on the man's hollowed cheek. The machine beeps warningly, but continues its steady hum, a heartbeat once Albus' has stopped. "You're not dying. The staff say that the life support machine can last at least a few more-"

"Is it worth it, Al?"

He shakes his head, over and over, panic welling at the back of his throat and the forefront of his mind. "Of course it's worth it, of course."

"I am _past _dying now, Albus. I've lived my years. I've been lucky."

Albus gives a startled laugh, and pushes his fingers into his eyes, causing stars to flicker cautiously at the back of his eyelids. "Lucky, Nick? This isn't - there's no way - _lucky! _Of all the things to say. If we were lucky we would've had more time, we would've grown up together, gone to Harrow, made our names, not, not _this! _This twisted affair we tricked ourselves into and then a stupid, clichéd farewell because this time, I can't follow you - how is that _lucky?" _

"Well, Jesus Christ, lad. I never took you for a cynical sort," Nicolas added sharply.

"I've changed," Albus says.

The older man nodded slowly, eyes half-lidded, now, with the strain of staying open. "So you have, Al." His hand falls away from Albus' tie. "I've asked them to take me off life support."

Albus nods slowly, brow furrowed, looking at his former - what? Friend, his friend - from over his half-moon spectacles, a running joke with his own students. "When?" He asks, just as slowly. He runs a hand over his jaw, at the beginning of a beard around the edges.

"As soon as you leave."

"That _soon?" _Albus asks incredulously, bracing his hand against the bed frame. It quivers.

"I left the last goodbye to you, Al. As always," Nicolas tells him, with a small smile. His breathing shallows audibly, and almost subconsciously, Albus plumps the pillows behind his head, remembering times when he could do that and grin; when he had a young face and an even younger heart.

Time leaves you weary, no matter how long passes.

Nicolas closes his eyes, but reaches down and traces the wrinkles on Albus' hands to let him know he's still there. He'll always be there.

"I can't do this," Albus chokes out, the words clawing out of his throat, scratching it like glass. He holds his lover's hand tight - too tight - and to his horror, he sees his glasses fog. He's crying. "I can't do this; I can't let you leave me-"

"I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens," he replies softly.

"Do you remember-" Albus cuts off, and he tugs at his purple silk tie, tempted to pull it over his head and throw it to the floor. He doesn't. "Do you remember when we first met, Nick?"

"Of course I do. You accosted me before class."

He nods his head, and the machine slows next to him, sedated, for now. The occasional beep breaks the silence, but nothing else. The two men - old, now, older than time itself, older than the oak trees outside the hospital window and older than they ever deserved to be - sit and remember when they were young.

(But they still believe they're young at heart, and if they tell you any differently, they're lying.)

* * *

"To define is to limit." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

"Sorry, Professor!"

Nicolas turns with a sigh, straightening his suit and raising an eyebrow at the flustered student. He picks up his folders, balancing them on his knee as he titters. He's getting too old for this.

"I really am sorry, sir. I never look where I'm going, Gellert's always telling me I'm going to run into trouble - which I did." The boy pauses, and his startled blue eyes widen. "Not that I meant you were trouble, sir! I just meant - well-" He cuts off again, and runs a hand through his hair. "It's my first day, sir."

"Well, don't make a habit of it, and we'll be quite alright." The man finally runs a hand down his tie, then offers it to the student to shake. "Professor Flamel. And you must be...?" He urges.

"Albus Dumbledore, xir. Well, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, to be exact." He blushes. "Al, Professor. Just Al."

"Now, Al, I do believe you're late for your first lecture. Classics, correct?"

Albus' brow furrows, and he rearranges his backpack - which is falling apart - obviously thinking hard. Nicolas notices that although his hair appears brown at first glance, it's actually a very dark red, catching the light. Indefinable. Incomprehensible. He clears his throat as the boy begins to speak. "Yes, sir. How did you- Oh, bollocks. You're _that_ Professor Flamel, aren't you?"

Nicolas chuckles.

"I'm afraid I am. Should we be on our way?" Nicolas asks with a smirk. Albus nods enthusiastically, readjusting his glasses - stylish, Nicolas notes - and follows him across the courtyard.

"I am sorry, Professor. You won't dock my final grade, will you?" He looks so worried that Nicolas has to smile.

"Of course not. I'm not a bitter old man yet, Albus."

The boy scowls, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Al, please. I can't stand the name Albus; it means white, you know. And I like my hair." He tugs possessively on one of the curls, going cross-eyed trying to look at it. Nicolas bites back a laugh.

Together, they reach the oak doors of the Oxford Christ Church Classics lecture hall, and Nicholas sighs, gesturing for Albus to go through first. He gives him a confused look.

"It's fashionable for the teacher to arrive after the students," Nicolas explains with a raised eyebrow. "Or so I'm told."

"Yes, sir. Right, sir." Albus gives him a cheeky salute, then sprints through the doors, holding his fragile backpack together. Nicolas sighs - he's going to have trouble with that one. He can feel it.

(And his beliefs haven't been proved wrong yet.)

* * *

"Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer." - _Oscar Wilde.__  
_

* * *

"Professor!"

Nicolas looks up. It's a whole year since his altercation with Albus, and he can feel the beginnings of a migraine at the back of his head. He wonders why on earth he came back to teach at Oxford University; he definitely wasn't in it for the elbow patches.

Albus is leaning over his desk, offering a vibrant smile, one hand wrapped around the strap of his satchel. The tattered backpack had long since been discarded.

"Hello again, Al. Back so soon? Another late assignment?"

"You act as though you're sick of me, sir!" Albus says mockingly, clutching his heart with one hand and pressing the other to his forehead.

Nicolas sighs, and rearranges his papers, closing various drawers of his desk and trying not to focus on the closeness of his student. His _very young, very impressionable _student_. _"What is it this time, Albus? I have things to mark, you know-"

"I just wanted to ask you something, professor." Suddenly, his tone is serious, and Nicolas looks up. He no longer sees the confident grin, but a shaking hand tugging on a wild curl. "Nicolas."

He raises an eyebrow. Albus, all the time they've amicably chatted after lectures - or before - has never called him anything but _sir _and _professor. _

"Go on," he says reluctantly, placing his briefcase carefully down on his seat.

"You see, sir - Nicolas - well - I-" He runs a hand through his hair, and gives a shaky smile. "I just wondered if you wanted to get a drink with me. A coffee, or something. Tea. Hot chocolate would be good, though a little odd - I don't like hot chocolate, see, don't know why-"

Nicolas puts up a hand to stop him.

"Albus - I may be wrong, so don't hesitate to correct me if I am - but are you asking me out on a _date?"_

The quirky tilt of his student's lips is all he needs as confirmation.

"That's preposterous!" he shouts, and Albus jumps back, hand returning to his satchel, worried eyes peering out of auburn hair. "Of all your idiotic ideas - _Mr _Dumbledore, I expected better. I am _thirty _years your senior! I'm your professor! I can't believe you'd even _dare-"_

"But you like me, sir," Albus drawls, leaning against the desk, worried fingers tapping out a hurried rhythm on his strap.

"I - that's completely against the point, lad-"

"I don't really think it is, Professor. You see, I'm a legal adult. And I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions, _especially if no one finds out." _

And Nicolas is tempted. Of course he's tempted. A gorgeous, eccentric boy - man, almost - who lives to make him smile, _of course _he's interested and of course he'd like to know if he takes sugar with his coffee - and if he doesn't, then will he reply with, _"I'm already sweet enough," _just because it's Al?- and of course he'd like to know if that hair is as soft as it seems.

But he can't.

"No, Al," Nicolas tells him softly, and he looks down, rearranges his papers, and leaves. If he looks behind him, just once, he'll pretend he doesn't see Albus holding back tears.

(One day, he'll stop pretending and start believing.)

* * *

"I am not young enough to know everything." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

When he steps into the lecture hall at the end of Albus' second year, he is greeted with empty seats and Albus dancing on his desk.

"And just _what _do you think you're doing?" Nicolas asks with a growl, staring at the blank spaces in bemusement. He has at least fifty students that turn up to every lecture, without a doubt, so he can't see any reason why Albus Dumbledore of all people is _dancing on his desk -_

"We got our results, sir!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Albus, they aren't released until next week."

Albus blinks back at him, and jumps down off the desk, auburn curls flying madly. His grin is brighter than Nicolas has ever seen it.

"They got leaked early. Gellert said it was to do with-"

He sighs. "You know I don't like you hanging around that Gellert boy. I know, I know you say he's 'redeemable' or some other rubbish, but he's asking for trouble, is what he is," Nicolas cuts in, and Albus' eyes dull slightly, but the grin remains.

"Didn't I say you were trouble when we first met, sir?" He asks with a laugh, and he sits on the desk, swinging his legs. "Don't you want to know what we got?"

Nicolas blinks. "Well, of course, but I'm sure you haven't worked out an average already - admittedly, you're an extremely bright student, Al, but even you couldn't-"

"I mean what _I _got, and you know it, Nicolas!" Albus' pendulum legs speed up. "94%."

"What?"

Albus laughs outright, throwing back his head, exposing his throat, the undone top button of his oxford shirt and the frail, plain black tie. "Ninety bloody four percent!" Nicolas smiles softly, and Albus looks up. Their eyes meet, just for a moment, then Nicolas is leaning forward, crashing his lips against the boy's - the man's - his student's - _Albus' _lips.

It's short - just a brief, dry touch -but already Albus is arching upwards, fisting his hand in his professor's signature purple tie.

"_Nick," _he breathes, and this grin is brighter than the last; daring, and just a little evil.

"Oh, god," Nicolas gasps, and he pulls away from Albus, already panting, not daring to let himself to get close to Albus, close _enough, _close enough just to hear him whisper in his ear, just close enough to- "No! No, Al, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

Now he looks angry; he looks like he wants to punch a hole through Nicolas' heart just so he doesn't forget him.

"No, you shouldn't have _stopped," _Albus growls, and he stalks forward, fingers already curing round his tie, pulling him forward and pushing their mouths together.

This time, Albus' tongue curls its way inside, and he whimpers.

"_Stop it!" _

"You kissed me first," he murmurs. "Remember that, you kissed me first, not the other way around."

Nicolas runs a hand through his own, greying hair, not looking his student in the eyes, trying to ignore the staccato beats of his heart. Albus raises an eyebrow. "Leave it, please, Al. Leave. You're going to be late for your next lecture."

"That's what you always say, _sir_," Albus replies bitterly, picking up his satchel and glaring that hole through Nicolas' heart. "I don't think you really mean it."

(He believes it; he just doesn't want to.)

* * *

"We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

"Albus."

Nicolas keeps looking down at his shiny new desk, shoulders hunched. In his peripheral vision, he sees Albus slow to a stop, not swaying when the other eager students rush past him to exit the hall. He takes a deep breath, and taps his fingers on the wood.

"Come here, please." The please is an afterthought; an afterword. He can no longer expect Albus to listen to him.

"Yes, sir?" The words are clipped, harsh. Delivered like lines in a play. Albus is a brilliant actor and an even better student, but even he can't hide how his hands shake.

He can only try.

"I heard you and Gellert are planning - something." Nicolas knows that something is convincing the school that the "brains" - which is ridiculous, he also knows - should be the more dominant race. It's early Nazi-esque, and Nicholas knows it has to stop. "I don't like that boy, Albus. He's not good for you."

"Not like you, you mean?" Albus replies in a heartbeat.

"You know that's not what I-"

Albus' blue eyes narrow, and he hits his hands hard on the desk, leaning forward and looking down at Nicolas. He wonders when Albus grew taller without him noticing. "It's not about what you _intended, _sir, but with all due respect, Gellert is the one who's going to actually get me somewhere. Do something with my life."

There is silence between them for the first time in months.

"How is your sister, Al?"

He looks speechless, mouth moving, uttering soundless syllables, letting out heartbeats that can't form words. Nicolas remains stoic.

"I heard she had a relapse. Back in hospital. The cancer has returned. On her brain. It's affected her, and you know that; she is hardly your sister anymore, but a creature so full of hatred and longing, just _waiting _to die. Apart from she's still you sister, inside, isn't she?"

Albus' eyes water behind his glasses and his arms tremble with all the weight his shoulders have to bear.

"They said she may not survive the night, Al, so why are you here, arguing with me?"

"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!" Albus roars, knocking over the desk, sending his papers tumbling. He crouches down and holds his head in his knees, sobs wracking his broken, withered body.

He is just a boy.

So Nicolas kneels down on the weathered floorboards and clutches his close, stroking his back and smoothing his hair, rocking them back and forth. He doesn't say a word, because in that moment, Albus is mourning the loss of a sister he has never truly known and the gain of a boy he cannot trust.

"She was so pretty," he whispers, and he is panting against Nicolas' neck, his heart beating out an SOS message neither of them can understand. "Did you know that? Gorgeous, she was."

The laugh Albus gives is choked, like there is a hand wrapped around his throat.

"Brains over beauty, right?"

(Nicolas wonders if he's ever believed in a more beautiful lie.)

* * *

"Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

Nicolas slowly runs a hand down Albus' - _his - _purple silk tie. It suits him perfectly, as Nicolas knew it would. Albus runs a hand through his hair, looking down at the tie with a sense of hopelessness. Neither of them speaks.

Albus looks perfect in his suit, swamped by the sleek material and the bags under his eyes.

"Are you ready?" Nicolas whispers. Albus shakes his head.

"Will I ever be?" He murmurs back, voice weak, and Nicolas can see him swallow thickly. He straightens the purple tie again. "Thank you for the gift. You didn't have to."

Nicolas gives him a faltering smile, hands shaking as he looks at the two of them in the mirror. He isn't allowed to attend the funeral; family only. "Don't be ridiculous. I've worn it far too many times that it's lost all of its symbolism. And Ariana would've liked it."

It's a lie, because Nicolas never knew Ariana, and he sorely doubts that Albus did, but it's a comforting lie all the same.

The truth is far too harsh for funerals.

To his surprise, Albus doesn't cry. His jaw clenches, and his hands form fists, but he does not cry. Nicolas suspects he is saving the tears for when no one can see them fall.

Such is life, he thinks.

"Onto the breach, then?" Nicolas asks, and though Albus' laugh is watery at best, it's something. He buries his head into his professor's shoulder, whimpering things that Nicolas can't understand and feels that he's not supposed to.

"I love you," Albus tells him surely, before he and his crooked smile and purple silk tie enter the church doors, leaving Nicolas kneeling on the cobbled stones.

(He could've been praying if he believed in such things.)

* * *

"To define is to limit." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

"He _hit _you, Albus!" Nicolas shouts, tugging at Albus' shoulders, begging him to understand. "Do you not get that? If he did it once, he will do it again; and if he does it again, I shall have to _kill him myself!" _Albus shakes his head.

"Gellert didn't mean it, Nick, he didn't-"

He sighs loudly, and he looks into Albus' eyes. Pleading, now. Desperate. "He pulled you away from your sister's funeral because he was lonely, Al. And then he hit you because you said no. That's not love."

"And what would you know?"

Nicolas' hands leave his student's shoulders and cup his face, nails scratching against his skin, palms soft against his jaw line. This is the pinnacle of his life, and he knows it, and regrets it. And yet he loves this boy all the same.

"Love is kind of like when you come inside from the cold and your hands tingle so much they almost burn, but it's worth it, because at least you're warm, and soon enough, you can feel again."

Neither of them move, just listen to the sound of each other breathing, kind of believing the impossible is just an improbability no one has investigated yet.

"You should've taught English, professor, not Classics," Albus mumbles, and Nicolas laughs, before pressing a kiss to his lips, light and sweet and just a little untouchable. They smile into each other's mouths, revelling in each other for one more second.

"Please. Let him alone; he's not worth it," Nicolas says. "Gellert Grindelwald can be another boy's trouble, for now."

Albus doesn't say anything, but grips his soon-to-be-ex-professor's hand tight.

"Would it matter if I said I love you too, Al?"

"Nick, it would matter to me," he says. "It would, it would, it would. But it would matter to the rest of the world too. It would matter to my parents and it would matter to the dean and it would matter to the whole bloody world, whether it's their business or not, and it would matter because I'm leaving uni _next week _and it's whether or not it matters to _you _because I can't ask you to give up-"

He puts his hand over Albus' mouth, stifling his run-away words.

"I do believe you've grown up, Albus Dumbledore," Nicolas whispers. He runs a hand over Albus' jaw. "I think it's time I did too."

(But, believe it or not, Peter Pan never did leave Neverland.)

* * *

"No man is rich enough to buy back his past." - _Oscar Wilde._

* * *

"Five years," Albus murmurs, hand still clasped in Nicolas', just a whisper of breath left in his lover's body. "That's all we had, Nick, five years, before I left you, and we didn't seen each other for another forty."

The man mutters something under his breath, then with a jolt, wraps his other hand around Albus' wrist. "Do you really think this is the time for regrets?" Nicolas asks quietly. The machine beside him whirs in reply, but Albus himself simply shakes his head.

"Oh, Christ," Albus says shortly, and he starts to cry beneath his glasses - old-fashioned now, worn down and weary - his dry sobs echoing around the room.

"You were my best student," he tells him quietly, patting his hand. "My best."

Albus can't talk how Nicolas retired two days after he left university, fumbling through life with a besotted twenty-something and no job; he can't describe the noose that was around his neck.

The words would stick in his throat.

"I loved you, you know." Nicolas looks down at his withered hands, twisting a ring around his finger. "I really, really did. Even - even when I married Perenelle. I loved her too, like you might have once loved Gellert, but, not the way that I loved you." He swallows loudly.

The machine stutters at him, words caught in the wires. Albus doesn't try to say anything at all.

"So," he whispers, leaning against the pillows once more, resigned now. "My clichéd death. Our clichéd farewell. I've had a good life, haven't I, Al?"

"The best," Albus replies slowly, and Nicolas chokes out a laugh. Carefully, Albus loosens the tie around his neck and slings it around his lover. With a smile, he ties the purple silk with a flourish; it looks ridiculous atop Nicolas' hospital gown. "This is yours, after all."

His mouth moves for a few seconds, the machine beeping beside him like a whisper, before words finally form. "Never did... suit it."

"I love you," Albus sobs, still holding the purple tie he has kept since the day of his sister's funeral; the tie he held in his hand when he walked away, the tie he held in his hand when he read of the wedding of Mr and Mrs Flamel. The tie he held in his hand the moment an official-sounding woman told him his lover was dying.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Nicolas promises. "I do."

Albus' smile is small, and sad, but for the first time in a long while, it's honest; and honesty has never particularly been his strong point.

"Goodbye."

Nicolas presses their foreheads together, breathing as one, hearts beating in time to a rhythm no one else can hear. "Goodbye." His dark eyes flutter and the machine slows, but doesn't stop.

By the time Albus has collapsed by the door, the nurses have rushed in, one pressing a button with the air of someone who has been far too acquainted with death. Another presses two fingers to Nicolas' eyelids, and brushes them shut.

The machine stutters, screams, and is silent; a staccato with no one left to believe in it. The purple silk tie is still clasped in Nicolas' hand.

* * *

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, and that is all." - _Oscar Wilde._


End file.
